


Should I Have Run?

by IantoPace



Series: Should I Have Run? [2]
Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Person, M/M, New takes on the story, Romance, Straying from canon, These will be corrected as the story continues, Worries, corsets, musings, third person, thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4185825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IantoPace/pseuds/IantoPace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting with thoughts from Angelique, this will follow bits both canon and beliefs of hidden moments. It will expand beyond the canon and keep Angelique and Dorian intertwined in their deceptions, subterfuge, discretion, coming outs, and secret intimacies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Should I Have Run?

I was quite afraid of him, not as I always am afraid of the common public. They have harsh words and stinging glares to have my eyes stuck to the floor as I walk away. I saw a horror around Dorian. His stance and power exuded across his surroundings and his invasive glare left me to think about it before falling asleep and prevented forgettable dreams.

 

I wanted something I have never had any right to; all of him. How tragic.

 

I did believe those men, all of them and the one who spat on my face, though was not the first, and joked about cutting off my cock in order to collect what he payed for.

At least we left after that, an eager retreat that allowed only Dorian to see my tears. I did wonder, naturally, if he would come to despise such confrontations that he need not endure for my sake. Would he have any favor for what I am? His first words after I shed my gown, though said with a sincere smile, were to request for me to dress, followed by an afternoon of exploration. We may have shared a kiss, but his hand had rested over the extensions of black between my shoulder blades and his lips had displayed the transferred, artificial colour of my own.

Such false, _horrid_ delusion of who I want to be.

I also wondered about his reaction to the sudden display of my born truth. I worried if he protected me because he valued my being or because of his interest in the unnatural, uncommon.

I would figure out a subtle way to return the clothing after he turned away from my form in disgust, no different from the others.

“I borrowed your clothes.”

He was unlike the others, did that directly translate to accepting my entire self? I shouldn’t allow myself the belief of what this might be yet.

“You prefer the freak.” I tried so much to hold my tears away, yet my voice still broke. It was suitable, I suppose, to feel the weight of what I am: Freak. A human, nonetheless, meaning I deserve a place, it might not be here, but it is somewhere, and I might as well find it.. “It adds spice for you, doesn’t it? From the moment I was born, I was not as I was meant to be. No one spoke of it. My parents ignored me as best they could.”

I felt the troublesome moisture rising at my eyes as I told him my shame, a life of a whore, someone who threw their possibilities away and grew up wrong. He has had a life of ease. Despite his youth, his life has become relaxing in his acquired fortune, rising to a status of influential power and secure, selected solitude.

“Have you ever known that?”

“No.”

Clearly, there wasn’t a piece of him that seemed troubled beside the occasionally shown expression provoked by minor concern or small inhibitions. “You’ve led a charmed life here. We’re not all so lucky… or so normal."

Then he called himself different, such a glorified name when comparing to what I am. He couldn’t understand.

“I think I’m tired, Dorian.” My voice continued to falter. Fortunately, I had successfully abated my tears. “I’ve been _fighting_ for so long.”

He had slowly walked forward, no disgust, no pity, and no hesitance to him. “You’re not fighting alone Angelique."

I had to be sure, then. Did he actually intend to fight with me where no other had shared the loyalty? Was this another deception? “And if I chose always to dress like this? Would you care for me then?"

His answer could have broken me. “I care for who you, not what you wear.”

I wanted so desperately to believe him, to believe every word, lean into the palm he rose to my neck, and allow myself to betray my oath. So I did.

Our lips met and he held me as though he desired the same.  
  
  
  
  
Perhaps I shouldn’t be angry with Dorian, perhaps he intended this to end tomorrow morning, for me to become a fleeting companion. I had no right to criticize him for following the course of my occupation. But that was partially what bothered me, as it would seem. I had never been fond of my… work, of serving, and Dorian had misled me through the evening to believe he was so much better than the others, only to challenge each other here, surrounded by daunting mirrors in his territory.

As much as I would like to believe that, I wanted to stop fighting. Our adventures had been a blessing relief from my repetitive nights. He had welcomed my incongruity from the majority of the town populace, hardly treated me as I’ve often understood whores were treated. If it turned out to be a game, it would be the worst I had ever participated in. That didn’t seem to be true. After all, we all have our secrets, and I have yet to know Dorian's.

I might allow myself to believe him, then, that he could understand and hold me through my fighting. I owed him more than this concession for the wonder he has granted me.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment or message with your preference:  
> When I come upon the time of the ending of the eighth episode of the second season, who wishes for the fatal section of canon to happen, which I have a minor idea for, or wishes for the canon to not happen, which I have a minor idea for?
> 
> Please comment if requesting for a bit of the minor ideas I have for either.


End file.
